Crash
by Ambiguous Umbra
Summary: Delving deep into the thoughts of the characters after the events of 'Lost Son'. Reviews are welcome. Chapter 7 is now up.
1. Chapter 1

There is a whole, something that I can't comprehend that has taken over me, turned me into someone lesser than the person I used to be. Though I don't fully understand how or why this has happened, a part of me realizes that it can not stay like this and there must be something that I can do to put it to a stop. I look into Horatio's blue eyes; I can't feel anything, a cold that has permanently made a home in my body and then all of the sight and the sound, the chaos and raw smell of my own blood and glass bursting is not there. It is empty, all so empty.

I don't remember anything about dying. Funny how you seem to ebb in and out of consciousness. My mind could picture each of their faces as I was pulled against my will into the hole, this hole of black, this hole of silence. I don't remember them being happy now. All of the times that they were frightened, weak, caught off guard... No, I don't want to remember them that way.

It isn't right.

It isn't fair.

Last moment thoughts begin to cloud my brain. Is this just something surreal? Perhaps I am truly not dead and just imagining this whole thing. Maybe I'll wake up in my bed tomorrow with a bad headache and find out that I wasn't shot, I wasn't in the middle of that mess... I just thought I waas, feared I was.

There is no pain, there is no emotion. The iciness of my last breath is ripped from my lungs as I find a point on the ceiling to stare at... and I can't look away. Can't turn my face to take in his comforting visage, that tells me everything is going to be all right. Can't say that I am scared and want to scream but I can't feel my mouth.

He's not there anymore. The place where I have died is no longer there. My tomb... my bed... my final resting place as I have come to let it be known. People didn't rest in their graves after the funeral and the thousand tears and kisses goodbye. They stayed at that place where their lives were taken from them... if their lives were taken from them against their will, in which mine was.

I cannot see myself, I cannot feel myself, just an image, a carbon copy of the person I used to be, laying like a frail ghost in the cold wet air of the Miami jewelry store. It is not the same as seeing... I can... sense their sadness and their grief, actually feel the water running down their cheeks as if it were slipping down my own, the zillions of crazy and unthinkable ponderances racing and crashing in their fatigued heads. I am not a part of them... but I can still feel it. It doesn't make sense. It is not fair. But then again, life never is, is it?

* * *

TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

He lays there like someone just hit him with a car. He lies there because someone didn't watch him... didn't pay any attention to him when they should have. He lies there because he alerted me... saved me... and I did nothing to return the favor.

Standing nearby, I cannot help but stare into the face that I've looked into for several years, a face I have laughed with and yelled to for aide, a mouth that has asked me for help more than once and joked or said something cynical a dozen times over. Dark eyes that are now closed, that will never see anything again...a facade I have made still.

She watches me intently, Calliegh doesn't want to look in his direction. It will make her loser her cool, the only thing she is gripping onto that will keep her from crying. I know her. I feel the same way. I push a couple of guns into her hands, my mouth moving at seventy miles an hour, telling her what they are... and at the same time, my fingers catch on Speed's gun. I don't want to give it up. This feeling inside of me tells me that there is something I've missed, something that doesn't make any sense...he should have been able to protect himself; had he looked down at his sidearm? I mention this to her, hardly aware of what I'm saying. She leaves in a hurry.

Stetler is here. Our conversation is luke-warm to say the least. I don't remember much of it. Not that important. I feel a blossom of anger grow in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Now it is taking over me, the awesome sensation of death has occurred deep inside my head and with a pang in my heart. I've just killed my partner by not paying attention... I let things get too out of hand... I took my eyes off of him... you don't do that...

I never did that.

I never used to.

And now I've abandoned his soul, his still young life. It might have had great potential... It had a chance for romance, a chance for a family... a chance that's only an echo now.

I stalk from the ruins, no longer in control of myself, only my rage, the inferno that takes me over only when I'm not fully conscious. And I'm not. Half of me is wrapped up inside of myself, beating against a wall, trying to break the other half down. Because of who I am, I can't allow that to happen. Because I still have a little boy out there that cannot be let down, I can't allow myself to grieve, even for someone who was like a son to me. I've lost a son. I've lost a dear friend.

My muscles shake as I shove the suspect into the car. People can watch me. Yelina can watch me... the reporters with their meaningless cameras and microphones could say all they liked. I am a torn man.

* * *

TBC... 


	3. Chapter 3

The workstation is empty; his workstation. I can't help but notice it every time I come into work, put my coffee down, go right to business. The tepid Miami sun draws a red glare across the vacant seat, the desk, and the keys to his motorcycle. Though my desk was always near Speed's, I'd never looked at it, nor had a reason to. We were like brothers, competing all the time; usually he bested me because he was ranked higher than me.

I never minded.

I get up from my computer chair, my back is stiff and feels as if it's about to break in half. It's no more than a few steps away but for some strange reason, it seems as if it takes hours to get there. Part of me wonders what is there; just some old papers that he kept around for no reason? Numbers for all the girls he met when he was out partying? The gun cleaning kit that Horatio gave him?...

Sliding open the first drawer, I'm not surprised to find an array of pens, sticky notes, even a box of thick rubber gloves; but nothing out of the ordinary. I check the other drawers. Nothing special, accept a sticky note written by Calleigh proclaiming, "CLEAN YOUR GUN". I remembered that note. She'd wrote it after it had happened the first time; the day that they had gone to dispose all of the drugs, and Speed hadn't been taking care of his sidearm. He'd almost died then...

The problem with the rest of the team was that they didn't know him like I did; like I thought I knew him. He didn't write things down as a reminder to do them later, he didn't take care of things, he didn't maintain a general upkeep of all his equipment. He just did it when he was bored. And Speed was hardly ever bored, although the low apathetic tone in his voice suggested he was nearly all the time. He didn't clean his gun knowing that it would save him; he never learned from his mistakes. And that was something that no one could change; not even me.

There is a chill in the air. I shudder and glance around to see if anyone else is around. It's late afternoon, most of the desks are unoccupied; people are too busy on cases to be sitting around doing nothing. That includes me. I was supposed to meet Alex in the morgue five minutes ago. Instead, my mind had re-directed me back here. I can't help but wonder if his ghost is here, listening to my every thought and change of emotion... watching me.

I scoff. That's complete bull. Speed had gone to a better place; even if he'd had the choice I doubt that he'd stick around here; work wasn't exactly his favorite time for recreation. But as I walk down the hall towards the stairs that lead to the morgue, I wonder... what if he is?

As I step down the metal flight, I stop and gaze once more at his desk, and find that I've left one of the drawers open. Panic seizes me, sweat dripping from my forehead. What if someone sees it; thinks someone stole something? What happens if Horatio comes by to collect the rest of his stuff? I had to go back up and shut it. I scan the area. There's no one looking. They're all too busy to notice something that no longer has a purpose to be noticed. I begin up the stairs and turn the bend.

I stop, a frozen feeling gliding over my skin. The drawer is shut. I wasn't imagining things... or was I? Had I really gone nuts? A gulp slides down my throat as I go over and check it. But it's locked. All the drawers are locked. But how... and who...

* * *

TBC... 


	4. Chapter 4

I just saw Delko. He came in to drop off a couple of guns for me to look at. He didn't seem himself. No one ever seems themself these days. I didn't pay too much notice I suppose. But he did appear antsy. At least that's what I would call it.

I set the guns aside on one of the metal tables and stand in the center of the room, glancing at the calender on the wall. It has been a week since the case where Speed died. Only a week. Part of me thinks that I should have things under control now, I'm not used to keeping a constant grievance in my system. That's not how I work. Speed was a very special man; but I've seen others die that I was closer to... and I've felt nothing in a couple of days from their death. Why not the same numbness here? What was so different about him, compared to the others?

Leaving the ballistics lab, I pass by several people who don't dare to look at me in the eye. The day that he died, I had kicked over a table, broken a crime light; all with strength I didn't even know I had. I guess when you are propelled by one strong emotion, all of you gets stronger. That's how I saw it then. Now I'm not too sure. Realizing what I had done, I'd run off and found a corner to hide in where I could regain my wariness, where I could sweat off the pain and try to make myself more apathetic to everything. Horatio was the one who found me, the one who hugged me and told me that everything would some how be alright. I'd heard that line over a dozen times. It shouldn't have meant anything. This time it did.

Because it was Horatio who was saying it; a guy who hardly ever showed his own emotions. I was so surprised that I couldn't keep myself from crying a little. But only a little. A couple of tears and then I was gone again, wrapped up inside of myself. Tough, apathetic Calleigh once again. And I had no problem with that. I had seen what he was like on that day in the jewelers store. And I wasn't the only one who saw it. He'd compromised his unfeeling qualities that day and became the monster of vengeance, one that takes over all of us at some time or another.

I look at the calender with more scrutiny. There are no marks showing what day Speed died. The date just jumps out at me. Something I doubt I would ever forget. I hate feeling hurt. I hate missing; and I especially hate loss. So I try to isolate myself from them as much as I can. Yet, a strange nausea remains in the core of my stomach.

I move back to my work station and begin examining the guns. The case was another officer involved shooting, another case for the chauvinistic prick, Stetler, to horn in on. Just my luck. I swear if he sets one foot in my work space, I'll eat him. That man, I'd despised him ever since I'd first seen him...and somehow managed to despise him more, after Speed's demise. He'd gone to too many lengths to make it seem as if Speed was incompetent; to put it on the record that Speed had got himself killed. And even though it was the truth, I wasn't satisfied with the entire department knowing that Speed had done it to himself... he didn't deserve that kind of memory. I made everything vague... the gun malfunctioned plain and simple. Nothing more and nothing less.

I took all of the blame off of Speed... I put it on his gun. It wasn't the right thing. I had technically lied. But I didn't want people to remember that he had made a fatal mistake by not cleaning his gun... and it had killed him. Speed technically killed himself. It was just another man's bullet who finished him off.

"Calleigh?" a voice behind me startles me. I nearly jump out of my skin but regain myself when I see Maxine Valera's familiar face.

"Sorry I scared you." she apologizes, an eyebrow up. I can tell she's analyzing me.

I shake it off. "Is there something you need?" I respond stonily.

"Horatio wants to see you. He says he found something important."

The message is hardly informative. When does Horatio not want to see me? And why did it sound so cryptic? I never knew what was going through his head but maybe it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. I just needed to let go... everything that was going to happen with Speed, was over with. His foolish and boyish tendencies were gone... everything was gone. I sigh heavily as I exit the lab and begin my way up towards his office.

* * *

TBC... 


	5. Chapter 5

((One, I apologize for my prolonged laziness in putting up another chapter for this story. I have been at work on my novel. Two, the line button on the edit page is not working, so I'm placing my comments within double parenthesis.))

There is a new actor in my theater today. A man who usually doesn't act because he knows that he can't. Today, he thinks he can. Eric appears at my autopsy table, his skin glazed lightly with perspiration looking like a kid who's spent the afternoon tracking a lost puppy. I try not to take notice but it just breaks my heart to know that something is wrong and I could be helping.

"Eric, what's wrong?" I address bluntly. There would be no way to skirt the issue with me. I had children of my own and I was used to evasive answers.

A small smile appeared on Delko. "I think I see dead people." he jokes. Just like Eric. To turn his personal troubles into a farce.

"I'm not sure I follow. You're looking at one now." I gesture to the body on the autopsy table in front of me.

It's nothing." he assures, chuckling a bit to himself.

I show no signs of mirth. "What ever you say, honey."

"So what's up with Mr. Gendron?" he sends the conversation in a different direction.

Mr. Gendron, my newest tenant, had been the owner of a country store in Miami Dade County right on the water; a surfer shack some might call it. He ended up in a tree, his head twisted around backwards and a gunshot through his chin and out the top of his head. Would have been classified a suicide if not for the palm tree and the twisted head. Destiny Shore, the name of the 'surfer shack', was a shambles, clearly the original crime scene. No murder weapon had been found. According to Calleigh's on scene analysis of the bullet casing, it looked like a 9 millimeter; standard police issue gun.

"Cause of death, gunshot to the head. Straight through the mandible, tearing through the temporal and parietal lobes of the brain, severing the central and lateral sulcus and finally exiting here," I tip the head forward so that Eric could see where I am pointing, "directly through the sagittal suture."

"Whoever's responsible has got one hell of an aim." Eric remarks, his dark eyes examining the wound tract. "Did you recover a bullet?"

"No. It was a through-and-through. My guess is that it's still at the crime scene."

I watch his expression soften. I can't understand what for though. I have a feeling though that whatever it was, it has nothing to do with our case. His features harden just as I reach down to grab some evidence that I had collected from the cadaver. "I've got skin under the fingernails, suggesting a struggle." I hand him the small envelope.

"Great. I'll get this to the lab. See if the epithelials can tell us anything about our killer." he states.

"Also got something from his clothes." I hold out a small silvery object for him.

"A key?" he asks. "Do you have any idea what it might be for?"

"Not my area, Eric. What I can tell you is that it doesn't look like a key for a vehicle. Maybe a safety deposit box or something like that."

He glances up at me, his face suddenly now void of his earlier weakness. "Thanks, Alexx. I'll go see if H has any thoughts on it." With that, he leaves, not casting another look back.

I sigh and move to my autopsy tools, preparing to wash them. Eric has not acted like this recently, just today. The confusion seems to slip into my brain further and further; like Mr. Gendron's bullet perhaps. I caught something in his eyes that I hadn't seen since the day of Timmy's funeral.

A weight inside of me grows more heavy at the reminiscence of that horrible day. When I glance at my table, I can almost still picture him there; once a proud and youthful man now devoid of life. Horatio had struggled every day since then to come to grips with why he had not saved him. I could see it every time we spoke.

The clang of a tool on the tiled floor breaks my attention. My head snaps to the wheel tray on my right to find that a scalpel has fallen. My brows furrow. "How did that happen?" I ask myself, moving over to pick it up. The metal handle feels warm surprisingly. I hadn't used that set of tools yet.

Curtains separating the window to the outside billow. A gasp comes from me before I can keep it in. "Hello?" I call. "Eric?"

No voice responds. There are no windows in the autopsy theater, so it is safe to assume that there is no wind either. So... how could the curtains be moving?

"_Alexx_..." My entire body freezes as a voice hits my ears. I am shaking no matter how I try to stop. I know that voice, I knew that voice. But it cannot belong to who I think it does; because he is gone. Perhaps I am going crazy just like my husband suspects. I do after all talk to the dead; rarely do I expect them to speak back.

"Timmy?" I ask carefully, scanning the room from where I stand.

The squeak of the door to the viewing area surprises me from behind and I leap forward, a gasp escaping from me instead of a scream that I felt lingering in my throat.

When I turn, Yelina Salas is watching me with prominent eyes. "Are you alright?" she questions me in her thickly accented tone. "I didn't think you were one to be jumpy. You are after all in the company of dead people everyday."

"I'm okay. I just wasn't expecting you, that's all." I say with a warm smile. "You didn't have to sneak around. I wasn't doing anything too important."

Yelina frowns. "I wasn't sneaking around."

Now it is my turn to be bewildered. "You weren't?"

"No. I came by to tell you that Horatio is calling a team meeting. He'd like you to be there." She studies me as if I have morphed into a chicken. "Are you positive you are alright?"

I somehow find the strength to nod. "I'll be fine."

She leaves, casting me one more suspicious look over her shoulder.

What could that have been? Probably just my imagination. But something deep inside of me had a feeling that someone else had been in that room... and if not in body... then in spirit?

Removing my apron, I catch on a piece of paper lying on Mr. Gendron's body. I had not set anything there. I had not written anything. And I didn't see Yelina or Eric put anything there either. Cautiously, I approach and pick it up.

_Shakespeare knows who did it._

I read it again, as if that would clarify anything. Shakespeare? William Shakespeare? A poet from England who was _long_ dead. Knows who? Knows who did what?

Puzzled, I stuff the note into my pocket and begin out the doors to Horatio's office. Perhaps he can shed some light on this strange message...

((TBC...))


	6. Chapter 6

Your assumptions are correct. I have returned to write you a few more segments of Crash. Someone recently wrote me, expressing interest in its completion and I felt quite bad about not continuing with it... the same as I feel about not finishing my West Wing fic. So, sit back in your computer chair, grab a highly caffeinated drink and enjoy yourselves.

* * *

I lean back with an uncharacteristic sigh. My chair which normally is soft and comforting on my back, is making me twist and turn every thirty seconds. It feels as if I've been sitting in this seat all my life and cannot for the life of me find a way to sit still. The turbulence of the past few weeks has been more of a blow on my team than me... at least that's what they believe. I keep my thoughts about Speed to myself and lock the dark self-blame and what-if's in a basement deep inside myself. They don't know how I'm ready to tear my own hair out of my head. They don't recognize my animosity towards that particular event. They see it as new anger, new determination. They don't believe I can be stagnant.

But I can.

I can't move on.

Something buried in my guts tells me that there's something more to his death. Something wasn't right about that jewelry store robbery. Almost as if it was a distraction from the case we were originally working. Those men in there were up to something else. Something that I should have kept on about. But I failed to keep after it. I was too distracted... I usually never let that happen.

The glass door across the room pushes open with force. My blue eyes snap up to meet a pair of the same color. But these eyes are full of unwanted sadness. Calleigh stands in front of my desk almost in an obligatory manner. There is a burden pressing on her, something that she doesn't want to tell me. Something that she thinks she can take care of on her own. No one else has shown up yet. Perhaps I can dig it out of her.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No." she answers automatically, the Southern flair and joy back in her tone. Covering it up... she's trying her hardest not to let me in. This isn't the first time she's done this.

"You don't have to tell me now if you don't want to. But let me know if you need to talk."

She's silent at this. After a second, she lets it pass without so much as a blink of the eyes. "What did you call me up for?"

"I called everybody up." I say carefully, my fingers fidgeting with my sunglasses beneath my desk where she can't see them. "I found something out about our vic."

Calleigh nods and slumps in a chair opposite me, a huff of breath escaping her. Her gaze avoids mine; probably worried about giving something away to me. Eric opens the door before I can get a second word in about her odd behavior.

"What's going on, H?" he asks non-chalantly, standing just behind Calleigh. Something about him isn't right either. Maybe its just me. Maybe I need a vacation.

"I found something out about Mr. Gendron. I'm waiting on Alexx and Detective Salas."

As soon as their names leave my mouth, both of them come through my door, first Yelina and then Alexx, looking... off. What is the matter with everybody here? Am I just not with it today? Or is there something going on that I don't know about? Are they all still upset over Speed... as much as I am?

Alexx settled into the other seat next to Calleigh, while Yelina leaned on a filing cabinet to my right.

"Alright. I'm glad your all here. I found new evidence pertaining to our vic. It appears that Mr. Gendron had a very uncivilized hobby."

"Such as?" Yelina spoke up.

"Legal speed."

"You mean Mini Thin? The asthma drug?" Erik said.

"Exactly. Seems like he was pretty infatuated with it. He has a prescription for it dated a week ago. The bottle is already empty."

"You think he might be peddling it?"

"Perhaps. But I think right now we should be focusing on the doctor that set up this prescription. The name on the bottle is a Dr. Benjamin Wilcox. I've already taken the liberty to search his name with practices in Miami. Dr. Wilcox has been out of practice for almost a four weeks now."

"So, what do you think? He hires the doc to give him the prescription, maybe he gives him a cut of what he makes from the deals. Could be a partner." Calleigh suggested.

"Could be." I repeat. "In the mean time, I've asked Frank to track down Dr. Wilcox's address. I want you and Yelina to check it out."

Both women leave without another word. Erik shifts his weight onto his other leg and stares at me as if I've forgotten all about him. Alexx is staring at the rug solemnly. "Erik, what did you find out about the bullet?"

"Well, the bullet was shot at a perfect ninety degree angle, coming out the top of the guys head. Means that we're only liable to find cartridge casings at the scene. Might be worth another look."

I hum thinking the information over. No bullet. But a casing would give us the caliber of the gun and our murder weapon. "Okay. You and I will go back to the surfer shack and take a closer look. I'll meet you down in the lobby."

Erik understood the dismissal. Perhaps he could see something in Alexx's demeanor as well. He left letting the glass door close itself slowly behind him.

"Alexx, is there anything wrong?" I address her, squinting my eyes a little. Call me crazy, but she seems... spooked.

"I... don't know. Something strange happened in the theater." she divulges hesitantly.

"Like what?"

"I found this note on Mr. Gendron's body when I turned away for a moment. There was no body else in the theater, Horatio." She produced a piece of lined notebook paper folded into quarters. On it was written a very peculiar message.

"'Shakespeare knows who did it?'" I read with a hint of skepticism. "Well, Alexx, if you didn't put it there, someone had to have. Was Erik there with you?"

"He'd left by then." She answers, sub-consciously rubbing her arms. "There was something else..." she adds cryptically, as if she's not sure she wants to share it.

"What else?" I ask in a hard voice. Someone... maybe even Erik had tampered with evidence. Maybe that was why he'd looked so strange earlier...

She seals her mouth, looking away.

"Alexx, what else?" I question more softly.

"I thought I heard Tim."

The five words puncture me like a sharp object. For moments, I can't think of anything to say and labor to get the air back in my lungs. "That is not funny, Alexx."

"I'm not trying to play a joke, Horatio!" Alexx pleads. Her eyes look as if they might begin to brim. My anger subsides, but not all at once. "I'm telling you something strange is going on. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take this."

My eyes slide to the desk in front of me, and the note in my cold grasp. "I'll keep my eyes open for anything out of the ordinary concerning this. In the mean time, don't tell anyone about it. I'll mention it to Erik and Calleigh later."

Nodding, Alexx rises from her seat and heads to the door, more slowly than normal.

"Alexx?"

"Yes?" She turns around and I know for sure that she's telling the truth just by the look in her big brown gaze.

"I miss him too." I reveal.

Alexx gives a weak smile and continues out the door, leaving me with a new dilemma in the center of a whole new mystery.

* * *

Chapter 7 will follow at some point during the week. Maybe Sunday if I can get time before the Super Bowl. Until then, I'll be brainstorming. 


	7. Chapter 7

……………And brainstorming lasted for a year. What can I say? I instantly got lost on where to proceed with this story. At first I had an idea of where I was going to go; then I lost it. I'm working on three other stories at the moment; one being a novel and the other two being stories on here. My updates are going to be very sporadic and probably not close together. I can only apologize for this.

* * *

Calliegh is gazing out of the SUV into the heated glare of the Miami sun. She doesn't want to talk, she doesn't want to look at me. Though I have never been very close to the southern belle nor the rest of the CSI's, save for Horatio, I can feel a silent urge within myself to reach out to her and to ask her if she could use a few words of wisdom; if she could use a friend. However, whenever I think I've gathered up enough courage to ask her, she glances over at me and the blueness in her eyes becomes so fragile, clear, and glassy that I lose my nerve.

I can identify with how she must have been feeling over the death of Tim Speedle. While parts of me still anguish and cry at the thoughts of my own husband's death, I've found my strength in learning to live with his absence, no matter how much it hurts. It took me several years before I was able to fully bounce back.

For a while I had also played the tough outer shell game, and like Calliegh, I had been masterful at it. The only problem was realizing that the more I suppressed the sick feelings, the late nights lying awake staring into the ceiling, the cold mornings alone, spooning soggy cereal into my mouth and sipping tiny bits of orange juice… I was slowly making myself a ghost. Maybe in some unwitting way, I was trying to make myself closer to Raymond by slowly pulling myself out of existence.

"So, how was that party last night?" Calliegh asks, her voice direct and strong, completely opposite from the distance in her face.

It takes me a moment to think of what I actually did last night. "Oh, yes. It was alright, I suppose." I say after a moment, turning the car onto a small street filled with small doppelganger condominiums. My eyes scan the mailbox numbers as the Hummer rolls along slowly. "Same old, same old really. I go there to get away from work and lo and behold, I get stuck in a conversation with a fellow detective for over an hour."Despite her sidetracked look, Calliegh manages a smile. "I gave up on co-worker invite-parties long ago." Her posture straightens in her seat and her eyes widen a little. "There's the house. 461."

I pull the vehicle over behind a little red Mazda sports car in the driveway and scan the exterior of the home. It's neat, clean, and blends in with the other houses on the block. Turning off the engine, I climb out of the car and take a moment to smooth a crease in my grey suit. A police car pulls up behind us and two officers exit just as Calliegh is sliding out of her seat. According to the file we received from Detective Tripp before we left, the suspect, Benjamin Wilcox, was unmarried but lived with a long time girlfriend, Julia Taberesky. By the looks of it, only one of them is home today. Judging by the model of the car, I'll take a guess that its ninety percent Wilcox's.

Calliegh and I approach the door and I strike the knocker twice. Calleigh's face has become a stone cold etching of alabaster; unmoving, unresponsive, and unfeeling. Despite everything that I myself have endured and all of the coldness I've maintained, there is something so deep and disturbing about Calleigh's thick-skinned expression. Maybe it is because I have never seen someone bury themselves that deeply in their own work. Maybe it is because I have never seen anyone try to hide themselves so well after someone close to them has died.

The wiggle of the doorknob snaps me back to reality and the red door opens carefully. Instead of Wilcox, a young brunette appears with a dishtowel in her hands. She's made up pretty, sports a fair amount of makeup and dresses in a pair of capris and a light blue silk blouse. Her hair is short and wild, her eyes a strange shade of amethyst. "Hello." she greets, confusion plainly written on her brows.

"Are you Julia Taberesky?" I ask.

She frowns. "Yes. Is there something wrong?"

"Miss Taberesky, I'm Detective Salas of Miami Dade Police and this is Calleigh Duquesne from the crime lab. We are looking for your boyfriend, Benjamin Wilcox."

She smiled shyly, shaking her head. "You missed him. He was just here for lunch but left about a half and hour ago to go back to work."

I slide a pad of paper and a pen into my hands from my back pocket as Calleigh asks, "Where is he currently employed?"

"He actually has his own practice. He's a doctor."

Calleigh and I turn our heads to one another in unison as Julia continues to speak. "The name of it is Sweet Shores Medicine. It's on-"

"Sweet Shores Medicine was closed four months ago, Miss Taberesky." Calliegh interrupted.

The woman did a double take. "Excuse me?"

I chimed in. "Your boyfriend's license to practice was lifted months ago. Are you telling us that you didn't know that?"

She shook her head, a smile coming to her face. "There must be some mistake. Ben goes to work everyday. He comes home at the same time everyday. He would have told me if something had happened."

The classic boy meets girl, girl trusts boy too much, and boy lies to girlfriend and sells drugs on the streets. I've heard this story too many times for my own good. "Regardless of whether he told you or not, Ms. Taberesky, we're going to need contact information for Benjamin. Do you have a cell phone number at which we can reach him or a work number?" I respond carefully, my eyes locked on hers.

Her own eyes are on the grass. Now the mailbox. Now the car. Scatter-brained. Can't seem to keep her focus on one thought; one question. This is tough. It could be the difference between conscious concealment and panicky disillusionment. I can see water in her eyes.

"Ms. Taberesky?" Calliegh asks from beside me, an inch of concern in her tone.

She meets my gaze and wipes a stray bunch of hair from in front of her eyes. "He has a cell phone." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out her own and accesses the contacts list. She hands the phone to me. As I begin to copy down the number, she continues talking. "He told me the phones were down at work. Something about the entire system needing to be rewired. I should have figured that something was going on. I've never been able to get through to anyone."

I look up slowly. She's looking down at her feet, doing her best to hold back tears. Buried beneath her initial sadness, I can tell that there is a certain self-hatred as well as some saved for Wilcox as well.

I figure I'll bite. "Are you acquainted with a Philip Gendron?"

Her face is blank. She shakes her head. "No. I'm sorry."

Calliegh steps forward and hands her a card. "This is our number at Miami Dade. If you can think of anything else that seems out of the ordinary, give us a call."

Julie takes the card numbly and only nods.

"Thank you for your time. We'll talk again soon." I add.

Another nod. As we turn our backs, she heads back inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

Now only one simple thing to do. We'd trace the phone number, find out where it was operating out of. If we can find Wilcox, we'll be one step closer to finding out who shot Gendron. I say all of this to Calliegh as we buckle our seatbelts in the Hummer and slowly pull out of the drive back onto the road. When I'm finished, she's looking out the window again, thousands of miles away on her own train of thought.


End file.
